


Finding Orion

by Nell65



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Het, PWP, Very Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag for 3.2. Seriously, nothing but porn. Just because. Oh, and his abs. He works so hard on them. I appreciate that. And Clarke has a devious mind. I appreciate that, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to acknowledge my wonderful beta, Jeanie205. As always - her keen eye improves my work, and whatever errors that remain are my own.

“I could take a look at that. If you like. I’m,” Clarke paused, corrected, “I _was_ training to be a healer.”

“Before you ran away,” Roan said.

“Before a lot of things.”

He eyed her suspiciously.

“I don’t have any weapons. You’re the one who searched me,” she reminded him.

“Unless Lexa gave you a knife and hoped you’d kill me for her.”

Clarke scowled. “Since I promised to kill her the first chance I get, no. She didn’t give me a knife.”

He’d been standing by a window, his shirt off, a large basin of gently steaming water and a pile of rough looking towels beside him, poking tentatively at his wounded side. The angry red slash was still seeping blood and needed attention.

Lexa’s guards had thrust her into the room, then slammed the door behind her.

They hadn’t even untied her hands.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Come here, turn around.”

She did as he asked, sighing in relief when the cords that had bound her wrists were finally cut away. He also untied and removed the rag he’d used to gag her.

She turned back to face him, holding her hands up and open.

After another long moment of searching her face, he nodded and stepped back, spinning lightly on his heel so that the late afternoon light spilled across his injury. She assured herself that her slow appraisal of his naked torso, all smooth tan skin, heavy pectorals, and rippling abdominal muscles, was entirely medical in nature. She did not raise her eyes to his to see if he agreed.

“I need a second basin,” she said, bringing her attention back to the task at hand. “One for clean and one for dirty.”

“I’ll look.”

While he investigated the contents of several cupboards and shelves placed about the room, Clarke started pulling off the outer layers of her clothes and took stock of her situation.

She’d been dragged kicking and screaming down several flights of stairs, then shoved into this large room well below Lexa’s perch at the top of the building. Now decorated in junk-yard chic and styled with the aesthetics of a barbarian prince, all carved wood and old metals, draping fabrics and furs, layered rugs and too many pillows – fitting prison/guest quarters for the son of the Queen of the Azgeda – it must have originally been office space. The tall, square columns that had carried the wires through which the lifeblood of the twenty-first century once poured were still standing at regular intervals, even if the electrical conduits inside them were nothing but trailing dead fibres now. 

“Here,” he said.

She jerked around to find him holding out another shallow bowl. 

Sponging off the loose scabs from the long slash just above his hip, she sighed, “If there had been time, I would have recommend a few stiches instead of cauterizing. Less scarring that way.”

He actually laughed. “Have you seen the rest of me?”

She looked up, and discovered that despite the multitude of scars that covered his body, he really cleaned up quite nicely. He had a very pleasant smile, and his light eyes actually twinkled when he was amused.

After rinsing out the wound with the clear alcohol they’d sent him and examining it critically, she decided, “No infection. Once you’re done bathing, I’d leave it exposed to the air as long as you can. I don’t see any clean bandages around.”

“Thank you.”

“Why am I in here?” she asked, turning away quickly once it was clear he was fully prepared to drop his trousers while she watched.

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“See if we turn on each other, maybe eliminate one of her problems for her. Or plot against her.”

“Are they listening?”

“And watching.” He raised his voice and called out in Trigedasleng, “Bring the Wanheda some fresh water for bathing, and some clean clothes. And some food. She’ll be in a better mood after that.”

It sounded much more like an order than a request, but he didn’t seem to have any doubts that it would be obeyed.

Clarke drifted over to look out the windows, admiring the view. The tree-covered city filled the bowl of the valley spread out below, and the late afternoon sun lent a faintly reddish golden glow to the scene that made the landscape seem almost magical. To bad it was all ruled over by a two-faced bitch who’d feed her last child to the wolves to save her own skin.

The food and fresh water eventually arrived, carried in by servers protected by guards who waved their pikes menacingly until she and Roan were up against the far wall. The guards backed out slowly once the servers deposited their burdens and left, latching and locking the door behind them. 

Clarke glared pointedly at Roan, until he winked at her and rearranged the chair he he’d been sitting in so that his back was squarely to her.

It was then that she discovered that her undershirt was firmly stuck to the scabs on her shoulder. Still gripping the hem of the fabric, her crossed arms raised to her chest, Clarke considered her options. She could rip the scabs off. She could give in to exhausted frustration and burst into tears. 

She could ask for help.

She closed her eyes, counted slowly to ten, and said, “Roan?”

His hands were gentle as he soaked the scabs until they loosened enough that she could pull her shirt away. “Thanks,” she said, intending to send him back to his chair.

He didn’t move. “Let me see the wound. It needs cleaning.”

She gritted her teeth. “Fine.”

He brushed her hair over her shoulders, out of his way, and then turned her so her back was to the western windows, where it was illuminated by the last of the day’s sun. 

“Panther?” he asked as he worked.

“Yes. How could you tell?”

“Seen it before. Lucky it didn’t kill you.”

“I was hunting it.”

“Tell me.”

She did.

“Some god is watching over you, Wanheda,” he said when she’d finished. “You should be dead after a stupid stunt like that.” Then he poured the alcohol in. 

After she finished swearing at him, he said, “You should probably leave your shirt off for as long as you can. I don’t see any bandages lying around.”

He kept his expression so bland she couldn’t for the life of her decide if he was teasing her or not. She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think so. You said they were watching.”

That’s when he smirked, ever so faintly. “Body taboos. Interesting.”

“Just turn around,” she said.

He did as she asked, resuming his seat and picking up his notebook. Then she finished bathing, trying to retain as much privacy and dignity as possible in an open room with broken windows and however many watching eyes. 

When she was poking through the pile of clean clothes they’d brought for her, he said, “Try this,” and tossed her a shirt from his own pile.

She shook it out and realized he’d found an old tank top with very deep arm openings. It was too large, but with some minor adjustments and a few knots, it served well enough. Then she took her seat at the table across from him. 

He’d waited for her before starting to eat the food they’d been given. She thought this was surprisingly courteous for a man who’d held a knife to her throat, beaten the crap out of her, held her head under water and then dragged her through miles and miles and miles of forest before turning her over to her enemy. 

His enemy now, too, it seemed.

“Should I call you ‘Your Highness,’ Prince Roan?” she asked over a mouthful of bread.

“Roan is fine.”

“Why are you banished?” 

“I don’t know you nearly well enough to tell you that.”

After that they concentrated on eating without talking.

The western horizon still glowed a pale blue, but the upper sky was already purple with twilight as they finished their meal, and the corners of the room were vanishing into deep shadow. Roan ate everything that was left after she sat back, indicating she was full. Neither one of them drank from the dark corked bottle, instead sticking with the pitchers of water. He said the bottle held wine. She sniffed it once, definitely smelled the alcohol, and left it alone.

He never had put on a shirt. Or shoes. Only loose trousers. He must have known she’d been looking at him, but he didn’t preen. Or try to hide the scars on his back, scars she’d first noticed in the old subway station. Like the scars on his face, the ones on his back appeared to be complicated, far more complicated than the simple bumps of a Trikru warrior counting coup. For the most part they looked intentional, but some she was sure were accidental, and maybe, she thought, a few were from a lash. 

She’d been trying not to stare. Or think about touching them, tracing the long curling lines and the short rough breaks. Which of course meant that was all she could think about. Whenever her attention drifted away from trying to figure out what Lexa’s angle was. Which it began to do more and more often. Because she didn’t have enough information yet to do more than be sure that Lexa did have an agenda. And to be sure that she would do everything in her power to fuck it up.

So instead, she wondered. What Roan’s scars would feel like under her exploring fingers. Ridges of scar tissue snaking across his otherwise smooth skin. Long, hard curves sweeping out along his shoulder blades, coiling over his broad back and down his spine. As night was falling. A night in which she was apparently going to be stuck in this room with him. A room with exactly one large bed.

While Lexa’s guards watched. And listened. 

And reported. 

“Would you,” she had to stop and clear her throat and try again. “Would you let me tie you up?” she asked. Imagining it. Stretching him out on the bed, his wrists bound above his head, his body sprawled below hers.

He watched her silently in the gathering dusk for what felt like a very long time. “Why?”

“So I could touch your back.” She trusted he heard her offer, hoped he wouldn’t laugh at her.

“You can touch my back without that.” 

He had definitely heard her offer, and counter-offered with his own. He was also laughing, at least a little, she thought. But he hadn’t said no.

“You flipped me over your shoulder and held my head underwater,” she pointed out.

“You tried to kill me. Twice,” he replied.

He still hadn’t said no. She thought again about the watchers reporting back to Lexa. She thought about his back. And his scars. And his abs. And his hands, sure and gentle on her bare skin as he cleaned the tracks left by the panther’s claws. She thought about the rest of him. She felt something loosen up inside, low and wet. She tiptoed a little further out the metaphorical branch. “I’d let you tie me up.”

“Would you, now?” he sounded surprised. And intrigued.

“You won’t kill me if I’m tied up.” She had no idea why she believed this was true. But she did. He could have killed Bellamy. It wouldn’t have made any difference to his ability to drag her wherever he wanted to take her. Drag her to Polis. But he hadn’t. Because she had asked him, begged him, not to. 

“We’re being watched,” he said.

“In the dark,” she reminded him.

“And overheard.”

“Yes,” she said, very firmly, and met his eyes again.

He was almost entirely in the shadows now, but she saw him nod slowly, his light eyes gleaming. 

Then, “I’ll gag you,” he said.

She scowled. Had he missed her point after all? “Why?”

“To remind you not to use your words. You’re very bossy. And we both know you can still scream. When you want to.”

She thought about walking away. Remembered there wasn’t really anywhere to walk to. It was a big room. But it was only one room. With Lexa’s agents listening. And his broad, scarred back. And one big bed. “You’re bossy, too,” she said instead.

“Yes,” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at her carefully. “But these things are better if there is only one boss at a time.”

She heard, or thought she heard, all kinds of promises in his voice. She actually felt her nipples harden. Glanced down and saw the hard points under the old, thin fabric of the shirt she was barely wearing. She looked back at him. “I’m not inviting you to hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t agree to do that.” He suddenly grinned coyly at her, his teeth white in the deep twilight. “We’ve only just met.”

“Okay then,” she stood up. Before she could come to her senses and realize what a terrible idea this was. “Where did you put those cords?”


	2. Chapter 2

This time, when he tied her wrists, she was standing quietly in front of him. Along with the cords, he’d collected the shirt he’d had on when she met him. When she cut him. He tore long strips off and wrapped her wrists first, before he pulled the cords snug over the crude padding. Not painfully tight, but there was no way she was wiggling out either. He didn’t leave much length between her wrists, less than a hand-span. Nothing she could use to hurt him. Or herself. 

Then he walked back a few steps, towing her along, until they’d reached one of the old columns. “I noticed this earlier,” he said. And then he pushed her back against it and lifted up her hands, catching the cord on some old hook or nail far enough above her head that her arms were nearly fully extended. She was suddenly deeply, profoundly aware of just how much power she’d ceded to him. 

So was he. “Want to change your mind?” he asked, still standing a respectable distance away from her.

She remembered the listeners. She looked at his naked chest, almost glowing in the early dark. Raised her eyes to his. Saw they were already hooded with what she realized was desire, and the barest beginning of arousal. 

“Do you know why Lexa wanted you to bring me to Polis?” she asked.

“I think,” he said, leaning close enough that she could almost feel the vibrations of his deep raspy voice roll along her skin, “she had several reasons.”

He leaned closer still, pressing up against her, so close that she was almost certain that no one but her could hear him when he murmured into her ear, “And you’re about to stick your finger in her eye over at least one of them.”

He rocked back slightly and looked at her, his brows raised in question. She held his gaze and told him the truth. “Yes.” 

Once she did, he lifted the last strip of fabric, waited for her to nod, and then he gagged her. Far more politely than he had before. It really was nothing more than a reminder that he was in charge and she wasn’t. One that wouldn’t slip. 

It was also, without a doubt, the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced. Vulnerable. Silenced. At the mercy of a man who, if he wanted to, would kill her without a moment’s hesitation. And all of her own free will.

The blood rushed to her cunt so fast that if she hadn’t been leaning with her back against the pillar, she probably would have staggered. She did whimper. Hoped it would encourage him. 

It did. 

He leaned closer again and finally reached up to brush his fingertips across her hands. He played briefly with her fingers, then stroked lightly across her palms to her wrists, just grazing her skin with his nails. His touch was light, but not too light, as he began to draw patterns along the inside of her forearms. Swoops and circles and figure eights, alternating between the rough edges of his fingernails and the pads of his fingertips, slowly working his way to the inside of her elbows. 

The hair on her arms, on her legs, everywhere, even on her scalp, was starting to stand up, sparking with electricity. Her eyes closed and she started to shiver and hum, low in her chest. All her senses were rapidly heading for overload, and if she could have jerked away, she might have. But she was trapped by the pillar, by the cords on her wrists, by him, and so she stayed. By the time he brushed past her elbows and was stroking down along the inside of her upper arms, circles and squares and ellipses, her breasts began to feel full and heavy and started to ache, and moisture was gathering below, filling in all the places between her legs. 

When he reached her shoulders his touch grew stronger as he moved across her collar bones, around the base of her neck, up along the line of her jaw, and she’d just had time to wonder if he’d close his fingers and snuff the breath out of her lungs, when she felt his tongue touch the hollow where her jaw met her neck and even with the gag, she moaned. 

He licked along the edge of her jaw and back to her ear, it was the first time she felt his teeth. He caught her earlobe and pulled just hard enough that she turned her head to give him more room, offering him as much as she could. 

His wrapped his hands around her arms, then stroked down, pressing his palms against her skin, harder than before, up and down as he kept licking at her neck. Then he pulled his hands lower, stroking firmly along her sides to her waist, pressing along the edge of her ribcage with his thumbs. He didn’t lift her shirt at all, but thin fabric was no barrier against the heat of his hands. He swept up to cup her breasts, dragging his fingers across her hardened nipples, so sensitive now that she actually cried out, muffled though it was by her gag.

Encouraged, he swept his hands back across her chest, catching her nipples between his thumbs and his fingers. Tugging and twisting, rolling them back and forth, she realized that there were nerves that ran right down from her nipples to her cunt. Her hips started rolling right along with his fingers, her breathing picked up, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She arched harder against the pillar, trying to bring her pelvis into some sort, any sort, of contact with his body, or the seam of her trousers, anything, but he was just too far away and her borrowed trousers too loose.

“Eager, aren’t you,” he said, his low voice vibrating softly in her ear. 

She nodded and whimpered a smothered, “Yes.”

“Good.” 

He slid his hands around to her back and half-lifted, half-pulled her forward and up onto her toes while he bent his head and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, teasing, licking, pulling, soaking the old fabric with his saliva, and now she couldn’t have stopped whimpering even if she'd wanted to. When he switched breasts, she caught the cord between her fingers and used what short length it had to hold herself higher, press her chest into his face, the muscles in her arms and legs straining with the effort.

He pulled free just as she started to tremble and pant, pushing her back onto her heels with his hands at her waist. The large wet circles in the fabric of her shirt clung to her heaving breasts, almost but not quite chaffing the tender skin beneath, reminding her what he’d been doing. Where he’d been. 

“Don’t wear yourself out too soon,” he warned.

He reached for the fastening on her trousers, opened them and pulled them slowly down her legs, helping her step out of them, one foot at a time. 

Then he put his hands on her hips and turned her around, her arms still high above her head, hanging from the nail by the cords around her wrists. She was facing the pillar now, the old plaster cool against her flushed skin. His hands were running up and down her legs, massaging her calves and her thighs, and then up around her hips to her back, working out knots and pressure points she hadn’t really known were there until this very moment. From there he massaged across her shoulders, pushing deep into the muscles at the base of her her neck and into her arms, nearly frying her brain as one set of nerves told her to chase the arousal she’d felt beginning to build and another told her to sag into his hands and let him turn her into a limp, drooling pile of nothing.

She was well on her way to that limp, drooling pile of nothing when he started working his way back down again. This time he stopped half way, working the deep muscles in her ass, capturing the fleshiest bit just above her thighs and squeezing firmly. Immediately all those confusing nerve signals started firing up again.

Then he bit her ass, hard. She’d barely processed this, hanging between the unexpected flash of pain and the deeper pleasure when he pulled her ass cheeks apart and stroked his tongue between them. 

She actually squeaked in surprise.

She felt as much as heard him laugh, before he spun her roughly around and brushed her shirt above her waist, the cord twisted now and tighter on her wrists. But his tongue was swirling around her belly button and then lower and she didn’t care. He nudged her feet further apart with his knees, and his hands were pressing her thighs open. He raked his fingers through her pubic hair, twisting and pulling, and then his mouth was on her. His tongue pressing in, long, slow strokes broken up with quick, light flutters. He used his thumbs to roll the soft flesh of her mons across the bone beneath, pushing more blood into her clit until it ached so much it was almost, but not quite, unbearably painful. Her heart was pumping so hard she could hear it whooshing in her own ears, almost as loud as the sound of her moans, leaking out behind her teeth, biting hard into the gag. 

Lost in a haze of new sensations, she realized in a foggy sort of way that a sample size of one of each was not nearly enough to have decided that girls were better at this than boys. Possibly the only real truth was that Finn Collins had been just seventeen years old and needed a lot more practice, before she’d killed him to satisfy Lexa’s impulse to prove to her own people just how tough she was. 

She decided to imagine that Lexa was listening, and not just her spies. A thought that made her moan louder.

When Roan finally slid one finger, and then two, inside her it was such a welcome sensation she actually let her legs sag at the knees as far as she could without jerking her arms completely out of their sockets. She let gravity pull her down against his knuckles, his thumb pressing firmly against her clit, his fingers curled forward and pressing back on the inside. She was rocking and twisting so enthusiastically that her ass was sliding along the pillar behind her, the rough, broken plaster a strangely pleasing counterpoint to the pressure of his fingers. 

She felt her orgasm mounting, coiling higher and tighter, and her hips were moving faster as she felt the heat spreading into her thighs and up along her arms…and then he pulled away and stood up.

“Not so fast,” he said. “It’s not even an hour after nightfall yet.” He leaned closer, “wouldn’t want the show to end too soon, hmm?”

He lifted up the hem of her shirt, ran the old fabric between his fingers, found some of the holes, then with a quick pull, tore it open. The binding around the neck and arm openings had already been frayed, so it gave with only a little more pressure, and then he pulled the rags free and tossed them aside.

He paused then, his eyes focused on her tits. She’d had a love/hate relationship with her tits ever since they popped out, nearly full-size, what felt like overnight when she was thirteen. But right now, right now she was in love with the way they made him look. She smiled behind her gag, arching her back, knowing that her arms pulled up like this showed them off to their best advantage. Her eyelids fluttered again when he palmed them, rolling and pressing the heavy flesh, seeming to be utterly fascinated with their weight and softness. 

Eventually he dropped his hands, and she mourned the heat of him. She opened her eyes in time to watch him drop his trousers and step out of them, before moving back to her. Looping his hands around the back of her thighs, up under her ass, he pulled her legs further apart and lifted her up. She’d known he was strong, much stronger than she was, but it was still a faint thrill, to be tossed about so easily. 

Especially without the use of her arms, she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, and then he pressed her back into the pillar. She wasn’t surprised that he drove his cock up and inside her. She’d seen his erection, guessed that was coming, was ready for it. Wanted it. Wanted it so much she was almost shaking with want.

But she was surprised by how incredibly good it felt, thick and filling her up in a way she’d never really quite imagined. Hitting so deep it felt like the tip of it was practically behind her belly button, however anatomically impossible she knew that to be. Then he pulled back, almost completely out and thrust in again, and she tried, for the first time, to talk through the gag. Tried to tell him how fucking amazing it felt, even as her back and her ass dragged up and down the old plaster and her hair was caught somewhere behind her shoulders and was yanking on her scalp, and her arms were still secured over her head. She tried to lift them free, wanted to balance herself on his shoulders, but all the twisting seemed to have knotted the damn cord on whatever he’d hung it on. So she drove her heels into his ass and urged him as well as she could. 

Her old friend, her future orgasm, was back again, and coiling heavy and hot in her tits and her groin, making her clit throb still harder with anticipation.

When Roan stopped, ten minutes or thirty minutes later she couldn’t have said, she kicked his ass, literally, with her heels and grunted out an irritated, “Keep moving!”

He arched back, his cock thrumming deep inside her and pressing her even more firmly into the pillar, so close she could feel his heart pounding, feel how deeply he was breathing. All, she realized, so he could free one of his hands, which he used to push her hair out of her face.

“What is that gag supposed to remind you not to do?” he asked her. 

She wiggled against him as well as she could, and whined. It was all she had.

It made him huff in amusement on a quiet exhaled breath. “Can you lift your hands off the nail?” he asked.

When she shook her head, he reached up and freed her, from the nail at least, though it took him what felt like a really long time and he was muttering under his breath by the end. She dropped her arms over his head then, thinking he would set her down, and worried that her legs might not hold her up right away. But she’d forgotten what he could do. He just lifted her higher and carried her over the bed. Where he dropped her flat on her back, ducking his head to pull out from her arms at the very last moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The low bed wasn’t as soft as it might have been, but it was soft enough, much softer than the pillar, and covered in furs. She lay on her back, her arms, still secured at her wrists, flung over her head and her legs splayed wide in invitation, in welcome. While she waited for whatever he planned to do next.

The night was clear and the moon, just past full, was already well above the horizon and bathing the room in cool blue light. Roan stood at the end of the bed, half in shadow, half in the moonlight, all wide shoulders and narrow hips, his body outlined sharply against the pale ribbons that remained of the curtains. 

She could see the rise of the edge of his clavicles where the slope of his trapezius muscles met his shoulder blades. The smooth curve of his shoulders blended into his upper arms and then out again along the line of his triceps, down to his elbows and then out along the swell of his forearms, tapering again at his wrists, the smaller curved bones breaking the line that ended at his fingertips. Faint shadows softened the edges of his pectorals and his abdominals, hid the valley down the center of his chest, and made the divot under his obliques seem especially deep. 

The long ridge of his quadriceps blurred into the hollow above his knees. The sides of his flanks were ever so faintly concave, the soft, coarse hair between his legs not quite hiding the full, heavy sack of his testicles. His cock was still swollen, gleaming faintly with the thick wet of them, and lifted, almost, she fancied, like it was reaching for her of its own accord.

She wanted, for the first time in months, to draw. She could finally see why the classical artists had returned to the male nude, again and again and again. He was… beautiful.

“Ready for more?” he asked, his voice pitched low and deep. And loud.

A fresh twinge of excitement ran up her legs and burst across her mons. She nodded.

“I didn’t hear that,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, as clearly as she could against the gag, now wet and cool against her cheeks, drenched from her own spit. “Ready.”

He leaned down, put his hands around her hips and flipped her over onto her belly. “Bend your knees,” he said, lifting and pulling her ass and hips up until she was in what the yoga teacher on the Ark would have called “child’s pose.” Which she would now never think of in quite the same way again. 

When he pushed his cock back inside her she was fascinated by how different everything felt at this new angle, but he didn’t give her a lot of time, any time really, to adjust or think about it before he started to move. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster until he was ramming into her so hard and deep that she would have slid away from him, but for his grip like iron around her hips.

The friction and the pressure built and she was back on top of the wave in no time, pushing up against him, struggling for purchase in the slippery furs, her moans turning to sharp cries and heavy gasps as he slammed the air out of her lungs. Her legs were trembling, wetness was trickling down her inner thighs. She could hear the sound of his harsh breathing, of their flesh slapping together, the wet sucking and popping as his cock pumped into her. Her arms and shoulders strained as she pushed herself into him, trying to shift the angle just enough to hit… just right. Her concentration narrowed now to the feel of her clit, of his cock, of the heaviness in her groin. She was hovering, right at the edge, just about to tip over and fall, and then he pulled out again. 

She half-squeaked, half-growled in frustrated indignation. He flipped her over onto her back and pulled her down the bed towards him with a quick jerk. He dropped to his knees, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder ducked his head, dragging his tongue along the edge of her vulva, his hand working along her inner thigh. Clarke shivered, dropped her head back into the furs, raised her hips, let her legs fall wide and hoped he’d finally, finally let her tumble over the edge this time.

She let her whole being center itself around the feel of his tongue, flicking quick and light and fast against her. He let her push closer when she needed more pressure, let her set the speed. Soon she was jerking in his hands, groaning against her gag now tight in her teeth, and everything built, and built, until, at last, it all burst in one great pulse of pleasure, her abs contracting so hard when her orgasm hit that her shoulders curled far up off the bed and she came with a hoarse cry.

After she sagged back down, he kept licking her, pressing his tongue against her clit, making her whole body jerk and shiver, until she finally couldn’t take it any more and wiggled away from him. He let her go, sitting back on his heels and wiping at his mouth with his arm, and even in the dark with his face mostly in shadow he radiated smug satisfaction.

The fabric of her gag was so wet it had stretched loose, so she brought her arms down pulled it out, left it hanging around her neck. “Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he replied. Then he asked, “Can you take a little more?”

“You have more?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m good. Give me whatever you have.”

“Move up,” he said, indicating what he wanted by crawling up and over her, urging her backward until she’d bumped into the mound of pillows at the head of the bed, which promptly tumbled all over her face, half burying her. He came to her rescue, pushing most of them onto the floor. He saved one for under her head, though, making sure her shoulders were resting comfortably, before sliding his fingers down her body, reaching between her legs, pushing them apart until he could settle between them. He ducked his head down to her breasts, teasing her nipples by licking and blowing on them until the skin puckered up and she was raising her knees and shifting her hips restlessly, wordlessly inviting him back inside her.

He took the hint, and if at first everything felt loose and slippery, soon enough he was surging into her, his cock filling her up, rotating his hips with each thrust in a way that caught everything just right and made her hum with pleasure. He ran one hand up her arm and tangled his fingers with hers, holding her arms above her head, changing up the angle of his hips just enough, just so. He moved just a little faster and then pumped hard twice more before pulling out and ejaculating against her, his semen hot and thick as it squirted into the hollow between her hip and her belly. 

She realized she’d never told him about her contraceptive implant. At the same time, it pleased her that he hadn’t forgotten to take care. That her gamble on what kind of partner he’d be, if she gave over all control to him, had, so far anyway, paid off handsomely. 

Once the last spurts of his orgasm were finished, the tension in his body fled and she finally felt the full weight of him, draped across her and pressing her back into the furs. It was oddly satisfying. Her cunt was still thrumming, but only faintly now, and she wrapped her feet around his legs, holding him against her, enjoying the novelty of full body skin to skin contact for as long as it would last.

Then he shivered hard, once, with his whole body, before lifting up and rolling off her to rest on his back at her side.

He turned his head and caught her eyes. “Well done,” he said. “Thank you.”

She brought her arms down and held her wrists toward him. “My pleasure,” she said. “Can I have my hands back now? Please?”

He murmured his assent, and brought up his hands and felt for the knots. He pulled them undone almost instantly, twisting the cords and then the cloth free from her wrists, which then he used to wipe away the mess on her hip, tossing them off the side of the bed once he finished.

“How did you do that so easily, undo the knots?” she asked, pulling the now useless gag up over her head and flinging randomly into the room. “I thought you’d end up cutting them.”

“I’ve spent time on boats,” he said. “Learned about knots.”

He pulled her arm up so her wrist was illuminated by the moon. “Your wrists okay?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled her arm over so he could massage the muscles in her forearm and her palms with both hands, working out the stress kinks she hadn’t even realized were there. 

“That’s nice,” she murmured, her eyes closing in appreciation.

“Give me your other one,” he said, folding her arm back against her chest. 

She had to shift to her side, rolling into him to hold out her other arm so that he could reach that wrist easily with both hands. From that position, it seemed only natural to drop her head against his shoulder, let her leg slip over and across his, feel the warmth from his hands work its way into her arm and then her shoulder.

“Clarke?” he said. “Are you about to fall asleep on top of me?”

“Mmmm.” She said, meaning something like, ‘no of course not’ and ‘I’m too comfortable to move, though, sorry,’ all at once.

“Hey.” He shifted out from under her, rolling to face her as she opened her eyes at the disturbance. “Are we going to sleep in this bed, together, tonight?”

“Yes,” she frowned, feeling sleepy and confused. “Why not?”

“Are you going to try to kill me, if I fall asleep here?”

“No!” she exclaimed, more awake now. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head at him. “Okay. I promise. I will never kill you while you are asleep. Because if I ever do kill you,” she paused to smile as much like a wolf as she could given her general overall sense of sated languor, “I’ll want you to know all about it.”

He nodded, as though this were a perfectly reasonable condition. “Give me your word?”

“Sure. Yes. You have my word. No sleep killing.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up into a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

“You trust me?”

“On this? Yes." He paused, then added, "Enough.”

She searched his eyes, and thought he was sincere. Then, moved by some new impulse, she tilted her head ever so slightly and leaned in to kiss him. But before her lips brushed his, he slid his hand between them, stopping her mouth with gentle fingers. “That’s not a good idea,” he said, sounding both regretful and firm. “That would confuse things.”

“Oh.” She told herself it was stupid to feel rejected. Sweat still cooling on her skin, laying naked next to a man who had just fucked her more thoroughly than she’d ever imagined being fucked in her life. She felt rejected anyway. 

He must have heard it in her voice, because he caught the back of her head in his hand and pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead in a simple kiss. It wasn’t erotic at all, but it soothed away the ragged edge of some of her half-formed regrets.

“Roll over onto your other side, ” he said, pushing at her shoulder. Once she had, he pulled and tugged until he’d maneuvered the blankets across their hips. Then he dropped his arm across her waist and hauled her firmly back against his chest, holding her close. “Go to sleep, Clarke,” he said.

She was sure she wouldn’t, couldn’t sleep now, not while her body was still vibrating at a low but steady hum, not with so much to think about buzzing around inside her brain. Not with so many choices to second guess. But with his warmth at her back and his arm heavy across her waist, she relaxed. Her last clear thought was regret that she never had gotten to trace the scars along his back.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke didn’t wake until just after dawn. It was her first night of deep, unbroken sleep in she didn’t know how long. When she opened her eyes at last, she stretched luxuriously, enjoying the feel of the furs on her skin. She and Roan had rolled away from each other sometime in the night, but he was still in bed, too. He was sleeping mostly on his stomach now, with his face turned away from her and his head pillowed on his arm, his breathing heavy and slow. Apparently a hot sleeper, he’d also kicked off all the blankets, leaving them for her to cocoon herself up.

She gently scooted closer, drawn by her fascination with the scars on his back, all fully exposed to her in the early morning light. She raised her hand, and without actually touching him, traced the large circles stamped across his shoulder blades. She’d thought before that they were from scarification, but now she decided it was an old branding.

“You can touch them, if you like,” he said, his voice deeper and raspier than ever, but sounding more awake than she’d realized.

She immediately accepted his offer, gently brushing the mass of tangled hair across his shoulders, then running her fingers around the heavy, smooth circles, almost a handspan across, some of them broken by a long thin score she thought must have come later, from a sword.

“What do they mean?” she asked.

“They don’t mean anything now.” His face was still turned away from her. “Other than I was once young and stupid enough to stand still for them.”

She drew her fingertips along the x that filled one of the circles, before moving down to the paired lines that ran down each side of his spine to the middle of his back. “What did they mean then?”

“Then?” He shifted, rolling enough to crane his head to look at her, “They meant I was young and stupid enough to stand still.”

She brushed her hand further down the line of his spine, feeling for what she was now certain were three rough, knobby scars left by a lash. “So, not kill marks?”

“No. Part of a coming of age ceremony.”

“Do the shapes mean anything?”

“That I once belonged to the Azgeda,” his tone was still amiable, but his eyes were shuttered and the line of his mouth was grim as he twisted his body so that he was now lying flat on his back.

She pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry. You kept your end of the deal. She should have honored it.”

“As you know,” his expression was sour, “the Commander isn’t much for honoring her deals. Which I knew, but I hoped the gamble would pay off.”

“And now you’re stuck here with me,” she actually felt apologetic about this, which was completely bizarre, she knew.

“I’ve been stuck far worse places than this, Wanheda,” he said, and if his chuckle sounded faintly bitter, she figured he had the right. "I’m clean, I’ve eaten, I’ve slept an uninterrupted night in an actual bed,” he turned his head to her and nodded, a warmer, more personal smile flickering over his lips, “I’ve had sex. I’m in better shape than I’ve been in a long time.”

She looked at him critically, and decided he might be right. His face looked better, less puffy and sallow, and his eyes were no longer red-rimmed with fatigue.

He yawned hugely, turning his head away. “Sorry,” he said, when he could, “there don’t seem to be any toothbrushes in the supplies they delivered.”

“What happens next?”

“No idea.”

His latest injury, the one she’d inflicted, caught her eye and she sat up, holding the blanket to her chest. “Let me see that.”

He lay still and let her investigate, but everything seemed to be healing now, and without any further injury or damage from their vigorous activities the night before. It would take weeks for the redness to fade, she knew, but her slash across his hip had been glancing rather than deep. Not for want of trying, but for poor aim and bad control.

As she was sitting back, she let her eyes roam across him, wondering if the invitation to touch his back might be extended to his abs, when she realized he was already half-aroused. He reached down and adjusted himself, lifting a shoulder in a light shrug. “Sorry. Mostly unintentional.”

“Mostly?”

“I’m in bed with a pretty girl,” he smiled more broadly at her.

She grinned back at the compliment, enormously pleased despite the ridiculous, not to mention hugely dangerous, situation she was in. “You think I’m pretty?”

“You need the reassurance?”

“You keep calling me the Commander of Death,” she reminded him, more than a little tartly. “I’d rather be a pretty girl.”

“You’re a very pretty girl, Clarke Griffin.”

She dropped the blanket to her waist and moved closer to him. “How pretty?”

He had to drag his eyes up away from her tits to meet her face. “Very, very pretty.” he said, and when their gazes locked she saw that something new and interested burned in his eyes.

She let her hand fall to his half-raised cock, soft and smooth around a harder, spongy core. She squeezed lightly and he hissed between his teeth. It grew noticeably firmer in her hand.

“Also,” she said, “horny.” 

Then she slid down the bed and touched her tongue to the pink tip, just emerging from the soft foreskin.

She paused and looked up at him, not sure if she was trying the right thing.

“You don’t need to stop,” he said, and shifted in the bed, rolling his legs further open and tilting his pelvis forward.

“I’ve never…,” she paused, not sure of the words.

“Sucked cock?” he asked, lifting himself up on his elbows and looking at her with faint amazement.

She nodded, sure she must be blushing.

“It’s pretty much what it sounds like,” he assured her.

But because he was, in fact, bossy, he told her what to do anyway. Even reached down and wrapped his hand around hers at the root of it, his grip startlingly tight. This seemed to do the trick, and his erection grew thicker and firmer, arching upward toward his belly with the large, pink head fully emerged, and the flared edge was a hard ridge under her tongue.

She was just starting to wonder how she would know when he was close, and what she’d do when he was, when he reached down, caught her under her arms and tugged her up the length of his body. “Your turn,” he said, running his hands along her back and her ass, pressing and stroking. “What do you want?”

She put her hands on his chest and pressed herself up to straddle him. “This,” she said, and gave free rein to her desire to explore his chest with her fingers, stroking along the lines of his pectorals, ghosting around the areolas surrounding his nipples. She moved gradually backward, gently sliding down the length of his torso, paying careful attention to each hard ridge and accompanying valley of his abdominals, until his erection was bumping up against her ass. She rose up on her knees and adjusted herself over him.

“And this,” she said, and she guided him in. She wasn’t nearly as ready for him as she’d been the night before, so there was a queer, and queerly satisfying, ache as her flesh parted around him. But as soon as he was fully inside her, and she started to move, the ache eased, lubrication poured in, and pleasure took over.

With his hands on her hips, she rode and rocked and twisted, chasing down the right speed and angle and pressure, warmth spreading out along her legs and up her belly the closer she got.

His grip tightened suddenly and he started to push her up and she realized why. She covered his hands with her own, pressing back. “It’s okay,” she panted, bearing down harder, “I can’t get pregnant.”

“Can’t?”

“I have an implant.”

She saw doubt warring with relief on his face, felt him just about decide to throw her off anyway, when she rocked forward, changing her angle and thrusting still harder.

He gave in to the inevitable and ejaculated inside her a moment later.

“What is an ‘implant’?” he asked as soon as he’d caught his breath, his hands still tight on her hips, clearly not intending to let her go until she’d satisfied his questions.

“A medical device. It releases hormones, blocks ovulation. No egg for the sperm to find, no baby. Mine’s good for years yet, until I’m twenty-five at least.”

“You’re sure?”

She decided that it wasn’t mere thoughtfulness on his part. The man really, truly did not want to make a baby. “Yes,” she assured him. “I’m very, very sure.”

He nodded, but still looked doubtful. Then he shrugged and let it go, and his brow wrinkled as some new worry occurred to him. “Wait. Until you’re twenty-five? How old are you?” he asked her.

“Eighteen.”

His face and hands went slack with surprise, and then he shook his head at her obviously laughing inside at some private joke.

“What?” she demanded.

“I have scars older than you.”

“You’re not that old,” she said, feeling miffed for she didn't know what reason. “I don’t believe you.”

He held up his left hand, and she could see the small hard ridge of a very old scar on his palm. “I was ten. Knife fight with an older cousin.”

“You lost?” she asked, raising her brow.

“No,” he replied. And his smile was vulpine.

He bent his arm, lifting it so she could see another thin scar along his elbow. “Training fight. I was twelve.”

She reached down and traced a ragged-looking one along the top of his shoulder, a deep gash, one she thought had been cauterized rather than stitched. “This one?”

“Hunting accident. But I was in my early twenties.”

“How about this one?” she traced another scar on the outside of his bicep, and after he told her its story, another. She shifted up and off him, taking full advantage of his willingness to let her touch and explore and answer her questions. Gleaning from his rough, graveled voice so much more than one man’s history of pushing his body to the limit. Hearing instead all the other multitude of untold stories of what life on earth had really been like, year after long year. Lifetimes of struggle and violence and war, since the old world ended and the new one began. 

She learned his body from bottom to top, from a wicked looking knot on the side of his foot – one of the large water snakes that had nearly snagged Octavia on their first full day on the ground – to the small gash at the edge of his jaw, buried beneath his unshaven beard – a hard right cross from a man who wore a heavy ring, a minor scrape that hadn’t healed clean.

Her fingers still on his chin, her face close to his, she let her eyes trace the scars that circled around his eyes from his temples nearly to his jaw, but she didn’t reach to touch them. She remembered how much he hadn’t told her about the brands on his back. “Coming of age?” she asked.

“No. It’s…” he paused, “I think you might say, rank? Indra has similar ones.”

She recalled Indra’s face and recognized that he was right, but that led to her realizing, “Lexa doesn’t have any scars like that.”

“She became Commander before she’d earned one.” There were deserts less dry than his tone.

Clarke met his eyes then, aware that the tenor of the moment had changed, but not wanting to talk about the Commander, or her tangled plots, or her twisted backstory. Instead, Clarke let her gaze fall to his lips, and then she looked back to his eyes.

“I’m not confused,” she said, sliding up a little closer, her mouth hovering near his. “I know where I am and what I’m doing.”

He went completely still underneath her.

It dawned on her that possibly he hadn’t actually been worried so much about her feelings as he was concerned about his own. “Would you get confused?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said, but his eyes were on her lips now.

The other shoe dropped, and she felt like a dolt. A man with as many visible scars as this one had could have plenty of invisible ones as well. “Okay,” she said, and meant it. “I understand.”

“But,” he slipped his hand up and around her neck, pulling her down slowly. “Fucking the Wanheda is full of risks.” And then he kissed her.

Kissing, Clarke was reminded, was good. She liked kissing. She liked kissing a lot. Roan, it seemed, and despite his initial hesitation, liked it too. And kissing, good wet kissing, especially when you were already naked and in bed and pressed close together, pretty much led to a forgone conclusion.

Soon she was on her back, her bent legs raised wide, the fingers of her left hand twined with his and pressed into the pillows above her head, and his other hand was fondling her breast. He was surging slowly into her, taking his time, pulling almost entirely out and then sliding all the way back in, pushing deeper and deeper until she was sure she could feel him bumping the edge of her cervix, finishing off with a swivel that made her head swim each time, before he pulled out just as slowly as he’d pressed in.

His movements were leisurely and deliberate, and eventually she couldn’t take it any longer. She started whimpering and bucking against him and telling him go faster, slam harder. He grinned mockingly at her and told her that she was too impatient for her own good and maybe he should gag her again. She just pulled him down to kiss him, biting at his lip, sweeping his mouth with her tongue, forestalling any more talk of gags.

Then the door banged open, and in swept Indra, accompanied by a handful of guards. As always, Indra’s expression appeared to hover somewhere between impassive and furious. 

The guards all looked avid and embarrassed in equal measure.

“The Commander will see you now, Wanheda,” Indra said.

Clarke and Roan had frozen at first, staring in blank shock at their captors. Now Clarke looked into his eyes, and then she looked hastily away because she just knew that they were both going to burst into hysterical laughter if they looked at each other a second longer.

She turned her head to peer again around Roan’s shoulder at Indra, deliberately not untangling her legs from his, or slipping her fingers out of his hair, and fully aware of his cock still inside her. “Now?” she said. “Right this minute?”

“Yes.” Indra folded her arms, her tone clipped and her diction as precise as always.

“Not in, say, ten minutes?” Clarke asked, much to her own amazement. She decided she must be having a mild form of an out-of-body experience. Because instead of embarrassment or anger or shame, all things that two days ago she would have expected to feel in such a situation, she felt smug. And feeling smug tended to make her really mouthy, something that Wells had complained about for years.

“If I had any reason to think ten minutes was enough, perhaps.” Indra dropped her hands to her belt and frowned at them, reminding Clarke of no one so much as one of her fourth grade teachers on the Ark, irritated with the class for pulling pranks. “But I don’t. So. No. Now.”

“Five minutes,” Roan said. “That would be enough.”

Indra shot him one of her spectacular side-eyes. “You think too highly of yourself, Prince.” She made the title an insult. “I doubt it.”

“Care to wager?” he asked her, completely un-cowed.

“No.” Somehow Indra managed to make it a two-syllable word, the better to hold all her disdain for his bravado.

Roan pulled his hands free and pressed up and away from Clarke, looking down to say to her, “I owe you.”

She grinned back up at him. “I promise I’ll collect.”

“Not today,” said Indra. “The Commander has ordered new quarters be prepared, befitting her guest.” Indra accorded Clarke a very stiff tilt of her head. “Wanheda.”

Clarke pushed out from under Roan, and scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking into Indra who had come to halt very nearly at the edge of the bed. Body taboos could just go fuck themselves. If Lexa had to resort to sending Indra as the most magnificent cock blocker of all time, Clarke had definitely won this round. 

“My name is Clarke Griffin,” she said to Indra. “And you’re standing in my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day ahead of the next epsiode. yay! And why one more chapter?
> 
> Because my excellent and amiable beta reader, Ms. Jeanie205, had a few questions about 'the rest of the story,' and I had a few more ideas... and so, this. I actually prefer it, makes for a nicer, stronger ending, one with the ball back in Clarke's court. So to speak. One more reason to always listen to your beta, kids!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [King Roan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224701) by [BellarkeBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellarkeBelle/pseuds/BellarkeBelle)




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